Salvaging One's Investments
by Effective Immediately
Summary: Really now, good help was getting ridiculously rare to find these days. It's getting to the point where a bullet is more likely to cause problems than solve them. Not that he was about to admit that, of course. Genfic


**Disclaimer: The world of Fable and its characters are the property of Lionhead Studios. **

"YOU IMBECILIC BEAST, YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SLAUGHTER THE HELP!"

Without a second thought, he'd pulled out his Dragonstomper .48 from its holster and pulled the trigger, burying a bullet in what was once a beautiful face a few seconds ago, but was now a balverines that was currently making mincemeat of his servant. The creature's head shot back with the force and its dead body rolled off of the man, coming to rest by the edge of the balcony where it bled out.

Looking down at his ruined investments, Reaver had to fight back another angry growl that wanted to surface. "Oh, marvelous!" he cried instead, waving his hands up to the audience that was no longer there but in the arena. "Years training him! Right down the drain! Do you know how annoying, how very 'trying' it is to find good help – let alone _make_ it!"

He rubbed at his eyes, breathing in testily before walking over to the edge of the balcony and viewing the carnage below. The rebels were so far still standing, though obviously beyond their league with the 'surprise' guests. Still, the leader was keeping them from completely taking over her group. Looking back over at the slain balverine and man he felt like striking someone, but settled for shooting the beast again, wasting a perfectly good bullet at that. He should have kept her around for this, _then_ shot her. An extra set of teeth and claws to tear into those pesky rebels would have been nice.

And now he'd have to go down to that blasted orphanage and choose more children, and have the little mongrels in his house again. It was either that or pick from his own factories and those ones were always so sickly, it was such a _chore._ Humans took so long to develop, and their prepubescent stage was so undesirable. Crying about the work and the murders and getting punished. He'd gone through three dozen of the lemmings before finding Barry and two others who were right for the part. And just who would accompany him this year to Wraithmarsh? Barry had been doing that for thirteen years now, it'd been so much simpler with someone who understood the score.

No longer having a stomach for this, Reaver turned around and swept down the lavish hall, feeling so utterly annoyed. They could all rot here for all he cared, right now the only thing he wanted was a drink.

The last of the guests that'd remained upstairs had managed to find their way out before the VIPs finally started appearing, dressed in torn clothing and still covered in blood. Honestly. The company he kept at times. How boorish.

Still in a foul mood, Reaver merely waved them off from his sprawled position on the chaise longue, drinking a vintage claret from his personal stores. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the name since reading it would most likely imbue a headache. Tenebrous was it? Or some other he'd most likely had pilfered from an unfortunate soul on his lavish outings. It really didn't matter all that much at the moment. After all, everything tasted better when you knew it hadn't been paid for out of your own pocket.

As it was, this was doing marvelously in helping him forget the chore it'd be to peruse the orphanage the next day for new recruits. Ah...sniveling, snot-nosed, rude little (miscreants) recruits.

Lovely.

It's not like the orphanage would refuse him, not with the gold he had: pockets secured all over the face of Albion and a few other continents: buried, in bonds, in favors, in buildings and businesses, etc. One didn't become a pirate and _not_ learn how to take care of one's fortune, whether it be hidden underground or above in plain sight.

Whether they wanted him there to 'adopt' or not would become a non-issue. That was what Reaver loved about gold, it tended to make these matters so much simpler. People would look away, others would keep quiet, others would bend over backwards, while others still would grit their teeth and bow their heads. Ah, those were always the best.

To watch as someone put their pride away and allow themselves to be taken advantage of, all for some coin.

Yes, they'd watch as he simply took what he wanted, in this case, being their beloved orphans. Watch them get taken right out and the gold passed hands and watch as they never saw them again. Or if they were lucky, they just might. Get to see glimpses of the child as servant to him, eventually growing up (and becoming much less of a bother) utterly loyal and obedient. Ready to serve in _any_ way.

It'd only take a few _years._

"I've put this off much too long," he muttered to no one in particular, now thinking about the trip itself. He was certainly not looking forward to going en route to Wraithmarsh alone. Or at all, to be honest. Every year it just grew more tiresome, going back to that place, passing through the remnants of a town he'd much rather not remember. Finding willing bodies – or unwilling bodies – to take to the shadow court nestled deep within, let alone getting them into the place.

Perhaps a new deal was needed...something to extend the span between visits. Reaver liked living after all, and certainly wanted to continue doing so.

And the world was changing. It'd been so different a mere two hundred years ago and if it continued on like this, then the very sanctity of his lifespan was threatened. And he couldn't very well have that happening.

The malevolent aura of the marsh itself seemed to be enough to drive most away but what harm could there be in providing extra protection? More incentive to steer clear of that small, grotty little stain on his memories.

Oh well, there was no use in dwelling on such unsavory thoughts when he could be enjoying himself.

Perhaps he'd have some fun and personally toss a few orphans in the hobbe cages to watch for tiddles. Yes. He'd be sure to do that before the next day was out. His mood considerably lightened at the notion, Reaver finally turned his attention to one of the maids currently picking up plates and party favors by the piano, snapping his fingers at her to get her attention.

"Be a _dear_ and round up a few others to take care of the mess in the 'private' chambers below, will you." She bowed her head, nodding before setting off to the servant quarters down the hall. "That's a girl," he cooed after her, taking another sip of the bottle as he laid his head back on the cushioned armrest, admiring the flickering chandeliers above.

-o-

He'd been drifting off quite beautifully when the scattered images of writhing bodies was struck through like smoke by the sound of screaming.

His cane that'd been resting to his side tipped over and clattered to the ground as he sat up, pulling out his ornate pistol as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was still in the mansion, resting where he'd been before. Well, at least no one had been foolish enough to try and carry him off this time around.

Reaver turned his head at the sound of the screaming, watching as a few of his servants ran up the hall, front of their dresses lifted as they continued the awful sound that was starting to give him an actual headache.

"Oh, do be quiet!" he chided, aiming the Dragonstomper .48 behind the group of maids to deal with whatever threat would come around that corner. But after a good minute of waiting for _something_ he finally lowered his pistol, turning to glare at the tightly woven knit of women now standing behind him as if he were some kind of shield. "Is this a new pastime I'm not aware of, screaming your little heads off and waking the dead at the most unholy of hours?"

None seemed all that inclined to answer his rhetorical question, let alone his unspoken one and Reaver could feel his patience wearing even thinner. One in particular finally stood out from the rest to explain and Reaver decided that he wouldn't shoot her in the near future.

"M-my Lord, there's still a monster loose downstairs. It t-took Tracy before we could lock the door."

"...can you describe this 'monster'?" It could very well be anything, though he was positive that the cages were all secure.

"A-a balverine, my Lord. We didn't even notice until it was in front of us."

And like that, his bad mood had come back full force and Reaver found himself swinging his legs off the white cushion, nearly dropping the bottle of expensive claret onto the marble flooring in the process as his head spun with the sudden change in position. He kept his pistol in his hand as he staggered forward, trying to stay upright to the best of his ability. "We'll simply have to FIX this, won't we?"

-o-

Pushing open the door to the overhanging balcony, Reaver grimaced as the scent of torn bodies hit him full force, the alcohol in his system making him want to keel over right there. A day or two and the place would be positively unbearable, they'd need to let the hobbes out. Keeping a gloved hand over his nose and mouth, he scanned the bottom floor, watching for any movement. Out of the corner of his eye he could just make out something in the shadows, currently invested in one of the many bodies lying around.

"Why hello there!" he called out to it, causing the balverines trademark glowing yellow eyes to turn up toward him, maw currently dripping with blood as it followed his movements above. Reaver walked closer to the edge, body swaying a bit, a smirk painted on his face as he continued to address the stupid creature. "I thought I was clear when I told your other late friend to NOT. TOUCH. THE. STAFF. Honestly, it's like your kind deliberately ignore such...such simple orders..."

The balverine slowly crawled out into the light, looking for all the world like it was gob-struck by his very presence. Well, it certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten that. The fur on this one was a slightly lighter shade than usual, though still matted down with quite a bit of blood, Reaver noted. Like it'd been injured during the fight, well, all the better then. He laughed at the notion, pointing his pistol as he tutted at it. "You've been abysmal guests, you really have. You've torn into two of my personal staff, left this room a mess, left my mansion looking like death warmed over as well. And all without a proper send off. Really. Quite. _Rude._"

With the last word, he pulled the trigger, relishing the pained cry from the animal as the bullet hit the thigh, tearing straight through. Reaver smirked, even drunk off his head, he still managed to make perfect shots. Smoke drifted out of the barrels as he lifted it, watching as the balverine simply rolled around a bit, curling in on itself.

Reaver frowned, expecting at least _some_ fight from the creature. "Oh come now!" he yelled down at it, waving his gun around. "At least _die_ with some poise!" He watched as it simply cowered further. "I'm sure your friend would ha-" his sentence tapered off as he pointed to the other dead balverine on the balcony, noticing something very off about the scene immediately.

Barry's body was gone.

"That's odd..." Reaver whispered, frowning slightly as he walked over, just managing to avoid the pool of blood that'd already gotten a bit sticky from exposure to the air. He vaguely wished that he'd brought his cane with him, almost losing his balance as he knelt down. Did one just drag him down there? _After_ he'd told off the first?

Reaver stood up slowly, walking over to the edge of the balcony once more and looking for that body. This was a matter of principle now, they were deliberately trying to go against him by doing this. A few scans showed no sign of the dead man though, the only occupants being Reaver and the ginger balverine.

Wait.

No.

NO.


End file.
